


Young, Dumb, and Full Of

by pukeandcry



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Birthday Sex, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Sex Tapes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 04:37:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2178192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukeandcry/pseuds/pukeandcry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry can't be there for Nick's birthday, so he makes up for it in his own way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Young, Dumb, and Full Of

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhere along the line "ha ha sure hope Harry is sending Nick a buncha dirty texts for his birthday" turned into this. I dunno. Playin' FAST N LOOSE w/ Nick's birthday timeline, but it's mostly an excuse for Harry to be a sex monster, so probably that doesn't matter.

Thirty’s been good for Nick so far. He’s had three parties as it is, with a fourth in Ibiza coming up, and he knows maybe it’s a bit gauche to do the whole birthday week thing when you’re like, an actual adult with a career and a mortgage and shit, but it’s hard to be very arsed about it when it means he’s constantly getting presents and all his best-loved people are around him, paying him attention and buying him drinks and reminding him exactly how much of a lucky arsehole he is for this to be his life. On the whole, it’s almost completely distracted him from the outrage of never again being in his twenties -- which might as well be _dead_ , he likes to tell Finchy, and he’s not _entirely_ sure if he’s joking or not  -- which was exactly the point of it all, so mission accomplished. 

On the other hand, he thinks there’s a good chance he’s been wasting his time worrying about getting old, because at this rate he’s never going to make it to his 31st birthday if Harry doesn’t stop trying to give him a bloody heart attack with his “gifts.”

Nick _knows_ it’s that Harry feels like shit because he can’t be there. He might be twenty and sometimes a bit of a brat, but Harry’s harder on himself that Nick thinks most people would guess. It seems like Harry’s always got the weight of the world on his shoulders making sure that no one else is ever unhappy -- especially unhappy with _him_ \-- and it tears Nick between being impossibly fond of him and wanting to shake him by the shoulders sometimes, let him know that it’s okay to say no, that he can look after _himself_ a bit, too.

But that just always makes Harry roll his eyes at him like Nick’s missing something blindingly obvious, so mostly he’s given it up and accepted that if Harry thinks he’s let you down, he’s going to make himself a bit mad trying to make it up to you.

This, though. This is just bloody _unfair_.

Harry’s harassing him with _sex_.

The first installment had come through at just gone midnight on the Saturday before Nick’s birthday. Harry’d been badgering him about what he’d wanted for a gift for _months_ , nearly, and Nick’s squawked and waved him off every time, because Harry’s idea of a no-reason gift is to buy his mum a new Range Rover just because it was a Tuesday and he happened to think of it. Nick can scarcely imagine what an actual _birthday gift_ from Harry Styles might be like.

“But I want to get you something,” Harry’d pouted over the phone when Nick had waved him off for the fifth time. “Something nice. So you can like, think of me, y’know? While I’m away.”

Nick rolls his eyes, kicking a dead clump of grass across the garden. He spends _demonstrably_ too much of his time thinking about Harry. He doesn’t need like, a posh new Hublot to remind him to miss him or something. He does that plenty on his own.

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one buying you expensive gifts?” he says, deflecting from that line of thought furiously. “You being my fit young boytoy and all.”

“I have a lot more money than you, though,” Harry says, not rudely, just unselfconsciously. “And it’s nice to spoil people.” God, it’d be infuriating how Harry can get away with just saying things like that if Nick wasn’t absolutely head over arse for him.

“Y’know, normal people just like, make a nice card for birthdays,” Nick says, wiggling his toes. “Maybe knit an ugly sweater. Something crap and from the heart like that.”

“Well. I dunno how to knit.”

Nick snorts. “Neither do I.”

They’re quiet for a moment. There’s a car alarm going off on the street, but Nick’s back garden is peaceful and sunny. If Harry was here, Nick’d make him make a pitcher of fruity drinks and they could get sloshed and a little sunburned out in the grass.

“I can do you something homemade if that’s what you want, though,” Harry says slowly.

Nick grins. “What, like, macaroni art? Stick your hand in plaster so I can hang it up on the wall with _Harry Styles, age 20_ written beneath it?”

“Maybe,” Harry says, and Nick can hear his smile even from across the ocean. “‘M a brilliant finger painter, also.”

They’d dropped it, then, moving onto something else. So Nick had mostly forgotten about the whole homemade gift thing, or assumed _Harry’d_ forgotten at least, and figured he’d probably wind up with a new pair of ungodly expensive designer shoes from a season that hasn’t even happened yet, or like, some unnecessarily pricey art. Last year, Harry’d scrounged up an original copy of a print Nick’s had hanging in his lounge forever, and when Nick looked up how much it cost, he’d nearly had a coronary.

But then Harry’d texted him last night to say _nearly finished making yr present. sending it off tomorrow hope ur ready for it_. Nick had shrugged, and figured Harry’d meant he was posting it. Except then he’d texted _again_ , just a few moments ago, asking if Nick was home, and if he could check his email in a bit for “birthday gift-related reasons.”

So apparently, whatever Harry’s made for him, it’s something that can be emailed, which has Nick plenty flummoxed. He pours himself a glass of wine, and as he does, hears his phone ping. When he checks, there aren’t any explanatory texts, but there is a new email. From Harry, of course.

Jesus, Nick hopes he hasn’t written him a _song_ or something. That’d be exactly the sort of sweet, unbearable thing that Harry’s perfect at and that Nick never quite knows how to handle. A boy he shagged a bit at uni had done it, once -- cornered Nick in a common room with an acoustic guitar and made him listen to a song he’d written for him. It’d been nightmarish; the song was terrible, and the boy was _so_ earnestly into it, and Nick hadn’t known what to do with his body while he’d listened, so mostly he’d nodded politely.

Harry’s technically a professional songwriter, so it’d probably be better than all that even if he has, but still, Nick’s not sure he’s got the emotional fortitude to nod along politely again, even alone is his own flat.

(The second, even worse possible outcome, is that it might _not_ be hideously awkward, because it’s _Harry_ , and he somehow manages to flip everything Nick expects about what it means to actually date someone and have a proper relationship on its head. But still, God -- if Nick starts his thirties trying not to weep along to a love song his boyfriend he’s not seen in months has written for him, he doesn’t know _what_ he’ll do.)

But when he clicks open the email, it’s not an audio clip. There’s an attached video titled HBDNICHOLAS.mov, and a short note in the body that reads:

_happy birthday love, here’s your present. sorry its early but i finished it quicker than i thought and wanted you to have it…_

_xxx_

_(but open it when you’re alone this is just for you ok)_

Nick squints at it suspiciously, and then opens the video.

Whatever he’s expecting, it’s not a shot of Harry, clearly taken from his Macbook in a poorly-lit hotel room.

“Hi,” Harry mumbles into the microphone. He’s shirtless, leaned back against a wall of cushions, and his hair is pulled back off his face. The video is a bit grainy, but Nick can still tell that Harry’s got a high flush across the top of his cheeks.

“Happy birthday,” Harry adds, rearranging himself a bit. “I mean, not yet, but like… wanted you to have your present, so, um.” He seems more distracted than usual, squirming and frowning a bit. Then he adjusts something, and the camera pulls back enough for Nick to see that he’s both very naked and very hard, his right hand gripping his cock as he jerks himself off slowly.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Nick says, slamming his laptop shut. He’s in the _kitchen_ , for fuck’s sake.

He stares at his computer warily for a long moment like it might spring to life on its own. It doesn’t, but Nick tosses back the rest of his wine anyway before carefully picking it up and heading for his bedroom.

He’s thirty. If he’s going to watch a dirty video, he’s not going to do it where he chops vegetables for Sunday roast like an _animal_.

So he flops down onto his bed and props the computer up on a pillow beside him. When he’s sufficiently arranged, he opens it again. Harry’s video is still up, paused and a bit blurry, but Jesus, there’s his cock, just peeking out of the tip of his fist.

“Christ,” Nick says again, weakly, and then hits play.

“Wish I could be there,” Harry’s saying, his hand moving slowly up his cock. Jesus, he’s already _so_ hard -- Nick checks, and the video clocks in at under two minutes. So not a long session, then. That’s somehow even _worse_ , honestly -- picturing Harry so worked up that he can barely last two minutes for him. On video. Fuck, on video for _Nick_.

They’ve done this before, obviously -- or, _like_ this, at least. But there’s something markedly different about watching Harry get himself off in real time over Skype rather than _this_ \-- knowing that he sat down on his own to do this, got himself hard and worked up alone in his hotel room thinking about Nick and filmed himself wanking just for him to watch. Knowing that Nick can keep it and watch it over and over again, if he likes, and sending it off anyway.

Nick wonders if it was different for Harry, too, to be watching himself on the screen. With Skype, your own face is all tucked down in the corner, which is frankly the only reason Nick can deal with it -- he doesn’t need to see his own expression when he comes. But in Photobooth, your own face is just -- there. Or in Harry’s case, his face and his dick and his stomach, clenching as he keeps himself propped up. Fuck, he’s fit. There’s a slight sheen of sweat over his chest, and the flush on his cheeks is going splotchy, spreading to his arms and stomach.

Nick has no idea how Harry’s even lasted the thirty seconds that have elapsed, so far, seeing himself on screen like this. Then again, Nick doesn’t know how Harry gets much else done in general, as gorgeous as he is -- if Nick was Harry, he’d never put clothes on, just hole up in his expensive flat and wank while looking in a mirror all day.

“Meant to, like--” Harry pants out, squeezing himself at the base of his prick like he’s trying to stave off coming. “Do a whole… thing. Start with my clothes _on_ , but, like.” He whines, his hand picking up the pace for a second before he forces himself to slow again. “Got so hard, thinking about it. Couldn’t wait.” He shrugs apologetically, and in the pause, Nick hears the slick slide of Harry’s fist. He must be wet. _Fuck_ , he gets wet.

“Should’ve wanked off in the shower,” Harry continues, gasping a bit. “Make this last longer. But fuck, I _miss_ you.”

He’s going to come. Nick’s sure of it. He thinks if there’s anything he could like, study for the rest of his life -- write bloody dissertations on -- it’d be what Harry Styles looks like when he’s about to orgasm, and then during. It’s the best thing Nick’s ever seen, probably, in the way that makes him go all obsessive and a bit weird sometimes. It’s what makes him want to keep Harry indoors for an entire weekend, sometimes,  to see how many times he can make it happen. Harry coming all over himself never gets old, and Nick’s not sure _why_ it’s something the universe has seen fit to let him see first hand and up close, but whatever. He doesn’t plan to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Haven’t, uhh…” Harry trails off again, and his left hand -- which has mostly been trailing over the moth on his stomach and brushing over his own nipples, occasionally clamping down on his bare propped-up thigh -- disappears out of the frame. Nick squeezes his eyes shut for a moment when he realizes where it’s probably gone, based on the angle and the way Harry suddenly shudders _hard_ , cock jerking.

“Haven’t come in a while, actually,” he finally finishes. “Wanted to… ah, wanted to wait.” His arms are both shifting as he wanks off and brushes over his own arsehole. Nick doesn’t think he’s properly fingering himself, because he’s still talking, and Harry goes _completely_ incoherent when he’s got something up his arse, usually.

Plus, he’s still managing to hold off coming, and Nick doubts he’d be able to in this state with his own long fingers tucked up inside himself.

“Wanted you to see how much I miss you,” Harry finishes.

His hand flies over his own cock, then, red and damp and _fuck_ , Nick wants to touch it. Harry’s hips lift up off the bed, and his head tips back exposing the long, solid line of his neck, the underside of his sharp jaw. Nick moans. He hasn’t even started touching himself, but he’s suddenly aware of just how hard he is, and has to grab himself through his trackies and squeeze.

And then -- fuck, Harry’s coming, his thumb dragging over the slit of his dick just on the edge of too hard and then he’s shooting off with a hoarse shout. It’s so much, and hits halfway up his stomach, somewhere between the birds and the moth, another spurt lower, smudging over the ridge of his abdomen. Nick whimpers at the same time as Harry does on the screen, leaning back and breathing heavily.

“That much,” Harry says once he’s got his breath back. His long fingers trail through the mess on his stomach -- Nick thinks hysterically for a moment about his joke about being a brilliant finger painter -- and then, fuck, he lifts his finger up to his mouth, sucking off the mess with a glint in his eye that’s far too sharp for someone who’s just come so hard.

There’s nothing after that -- Harry licks another swipe of come off his thumb, smirks into the camera bit more, and then it stops.

Nick takes a moment to breathe heavily, and then immediately shoves his trackies down his thighs, not even bothering to kick them off all the way past his knees. His dick bobs against his stomach and he shoves his t-shirt up a bit, but mostly all he can think about is getting a hand on himself as quick as possible.

He tightens his hand, bucking into it, and starts the video over again.

Before the Harry on the screen shoots off for a second time (and Jesus, Nick goes almost light-headed thinking about how it’s probably stupid and dangerous, but he could save this video to his computer and watch it whenever he wants, literally watch Harry come _whenever he wants_ ), Nick groans and comes all over his own fist. A moment later, video Harry does as well, that same look in his eye as he tastes himself.

When Nick’s breathing finally goes back to normal, he shuts the computer and picks up his phone, dialing Harry. It rings until it goes to voicemail, and Nick hits end, not trusting himself to say anything that’s appropriate to be recorded at the moment.

It does buzz a few moments later, though, as Nick’s wiping his hand off on a tissue. When he tosses it into the bin, he sees it’s a series of texts.

_in a meeting sorryyyyyy wish i could answr_

_guessing u watched it??_

_hope u like it… made it just for you_

Then there’s a long chain of the emoji with its eyebrows raised in a self-satisfied sort of way, and nothing else.

Nick groans. It’s just like Harry to send this off before he goes into a flipping _meeting_ , not even bothering to do it from the privacy of his own hotel room, and then unable to talk to Nick afterward. It’s cruel and unusual. He hopes it’s making Harry uncomfortably hard for whatever his meeting is, at least, thinking about what he’s done.

Later, just before Nick drifts off to sleep in a sex stupor, Harry texts again. Nick looks at it with one bleary eye: it just says _love you_.

-

It would’ve been one thing if it’d ended then. 

Except, nothing with Harry Styles ever ends soon enough to make it simple, so Nick’s not sure why he’s surprised.

When Harry finally rings him the next day while he’s out to lunch with Gillian, he doesn’t even bother to say hello before asking Nick in his best fuck-me voice, “So, did you like it?”

“Did I like what,” Nick asks hoarsely, cradling his phone against his ear and excusing himself from the table, heading down the corridor to the toilets where it’s quiet.

“ _Nick_ ,” Harry whines. “You know what.”

“Oh,” Nick says, shutting the toilet door behind him. It’s a single-person room, and it locks. He wish that wasn’t the sort of thing he’s learned to notice when Harry starts using this particular tone of voice. “That.”

“Did you wank off watching it?” Harry asks plainly. He doesn’t even have the decency to drop his voice, and Nick _wants_ to believe that means he’s somewhere private, but… but.

“Did I,” Nick starts, dragging his palm down the front of his jeans. He suddenly feels too hot, the collar of his shirt sticking to his neck. “Did I get myself off watching you make a mess all over yourself and then lick it off your fingers, d’you mean?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, voice dropping in tenor if not volume. “‘Cos I got off again after I sent it, thinking about you watching. Had to leave my meeting ‘cos I kept thinking about if you liked it. You liked it, yeah?”

“Christ,” Nick says. “Yeah, I did. Jesus, you looked good.”

“Thanks.” Nick can just picture Harry preening, the way he says it with such satisfaction. “Yeah, turns out I really can’t knit, or like, draw, so… figured this was the best thing I could actually _make_ for you, y’know.”

“Right,” Nick agrees weakly. He tries to imagine how many other people, when faced with the challenge to make something by hand for their significant other, would go straight from failed knitwear to _a short film of them jizzing all over themselves_ , and thinks they’re probably rare. The thought makes him strangely proud for -- something, he’s not sure what. Wrangling himself such a fit pervert of a boyfriend? Possibly.

“It was really hot, honestly,” Harry admits. “Filming it, I mean. Could see myself, like, and just thinking about you watching…” He makes a breathy noise, moving around a bit, and Jesus _fuck_ , is he really?

“ _Harold_ ,” Nick says, trying to sound stern even as his cock twitches in interest. “I’m at _lunch_. In _public_.”

“Are you really?” Harry asks mildly, his breath catching again. There’s a rustle of fabric, and Nick knows exactly what that is -- those are Harry’s jeans, disappearing along with any semblance of Nick’s dignity. “That’s a bit naughty.”

Nick wants to protest that _he’s_ not the one doing anything naughty, but he realizes that his hand has gone to the fly of his trousers on its own, and shuts his mouth.

“Me, I’m all alone in my hotel,” Harry says, trying to sound forlorn. “It’s a shame, really. What d’you think I should do with myself?”

“I’ve got some ideas,” Nick says feebly.

“Really? You should tell me about them.”

Nick tries to scoff, but it comes out a bit pathetic. He squints one eye at the posh wallpaper, then the other, and leans against the sink and gets his cock out. No point pretending he doesn’t know where this is going, he figures.

“Seems like you’ve got plenty of ideas on your own,” he says. “A real artistic vision, I’d say.”

“You know how much I love the cinema,” Harry chokes out, and then groans. “Fuck. Should I come?” he asks.

“Jesus. Already?” Nick asks, even though he knows that if he actually tightens his fist, he won’t be far off, either.

“Told you,” Harry says. “Hadn’t wanked in ages before I filmed that. ‘M’hard up for it.”

“You also just told me you wanked after you sent it,” Nick gasps. He tightens his fist, barely feeling the way the lip of the counter is biting into the back of his thighs. Suddenly, the doorknob jiggles, and he freezes -- there’s really, _really_ no way to disguise what he’s doing if someone barges in -- but the lock holds, and a moment later the footsteps recede away. He lets out a breath.

“Yeah,” Harry’s saying. “And I’m still desperate to come, so. What’s that tell you?”

“That you’re a teenager with more hormones than sense,” Nick says, but he’s pulling himself off properly now, fucking his fist down over his prick so hard it almost hurts, his balls already drawing up, so he might not have a lot of room to talk.

“Not a teenager,” Harry protests, and gasps a bit. “Just that you make me fucking _mad_.”

“‘M’not even there,” Nick says.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “This is how hard you make me from across the fucking _ocean_.”

“Shut up, shut up,” Nick says, squeezing his eyes shut. He’s going to come -- he wants Harry to do it first, but he doesn’t know if that’s in the cards, so he desperately fishes around for a tissue so at least he doesn’t have to go back to the table with jizz all over his trousers.

“No,” Harry says, because he’s a little shit. “No, fuck that, want to tell you how -- how bad I want to touch you.”

Nick whines, but doesn’t interrupt, which Harry must take as encouragement.

“Want to suck you. God, I miss your cock,” Harry whines. “Want you to grab my hair and hold my head in your lap while I rub off on your leg, fuck.”

“Come,” Nick says, because he can’t do this. “God, Harry, c’mon, let me hear you come.”

“ _Nick_ ,” Harry whines, and then he’s grunting, the slick-slip sound of hand on skin audible to Nick even from a thousand miles away. It shoots through him like electricity.

“Do it,” he says, and then magnificently, Harry _does_ , moans something garbled and low in his throat that trails off into nonsense.

“Fuck,” Nick murmurs, picturing Harry with a terrible clarity, messy and pink and sweaty. He thinks about how he can go home and see it for himself, if he likes, boot up his Macbook and watch Harry come fifty times if that’s what he wants. It’s that thought that sends him over the edge, biting down on his lip as he comes into the tissue as quietly as he can.

After, they pant down the line at each other as they both collect themselves.

“You’re awful,” Nick finally manages to say, smiling weakly. “Honestly, I’m trying to have a civilized lunch--”

“Not sorry,” Harry interrupts. Nick believes him.

“Thank you,” Nick says after a moment. “For, um. That. And also my gift.”

Harry hums. “I’m glad you liked it. Anyway, figured you wouldn’t already have one like it, so…”

Nick laughs. “D’you, um. D’you want me to delete it?”

It seems like the logical thing to do. Nick’s computer mostly stays in his flat, and he could delete it from his email once he’s downloaded it, probably password protect it or something, but it still feels reckless and dangerous. It strikes him, suddenly, how much Harry must trust him to send him something like this. Not that Nick would ever do anything to break that trust -- he’d probably rather die, honestly -- but it’s still a risk, and Nick can’t tell which part of him feels more affected by Harry going for it anyway, his heart or his dick.

“Nah,” Harry says. “Already deleted it off mine, anyway. Seems a shame for it to just disappear, yeah?”

Nick nods dumbly, even though Harry can’t see him.

“Anyway,” Harry adds. “I trust you. And I like… y’know. Knowing you have it. Knowing you can look at me like that whenever you like. Makes me…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but Nick thinks he can guess what he means.

“Everything _makes you_ ,” Nick laughs, even though he privately agrees. It’s surprising hot, just knowing what he’s got back home.

“ _You_ make me,” Harry says. “D’you have to go back? Could probably go again.”

“Christ, no,” Nick says. “I’ve been gone for ages, Gels is going to think I’m being sick or dead and coming looking soon.”

Harry makes a pouty noise, something like _hmph_.

“We’re not all twenty, okay?” Nick protests, smiling. “Give an old man a break.”

“You’re not old,” Harry says. “You’re, like. Mature.”

“That’s a nice way of saying _old_.”

“No, it’s different. You’re like a fine wine. Getting better with age, yeah?”

Nick laughs at that, heavily, and somehow doesn’t even feel like an idiot, laughing alone in a men’s room at noon with his softening dick out.

“You’re talking crap, love. Listen, I’ve gotta go. You alright to be on your own?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry agrees. “Car’s coming soon, and I suppose I’d better wash off.”

Nick considers. “Mm. Or not,” he says. There’s something squeamishly hot about thinking of Harry going around all day with his own spunk on him because of Nick. Christ, Harry’s really done his head in.

“Hm,” Harry muses. “Are you telling me? To stay messy?”

“If I was, would you listen?” Nick asks, even though he knows the answer.

“‘Course,” Harry murmurs.

That’s it, then. Nick’s fucked.

“Do it,” he says softly.

He clutches his phone to his ear with his shoulder as he tucks himself back into his trousers and washes his hands, not quite ready to ring off. When he’s sorted, though, he sighs. He really does miss Harry, and not just the filthy sex bits of him.

“Gotta go, love,” he says regretfully, hand on the doorknob. He glances out into the corridor, which is blessedly empty. “Call me later if you can, yeah?”

“‘Course,” Harry says hoarsely. It’s the voice he gets when he’s trying not to sound bothered about the distance and failing spectacularly at it. “Happy birthday again.”

“‘S’not even my birthday yet,” Nick smiles.

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry says.

Then he’s gone, just empty air down the line. Nick stares at his phone as he walks back to the table. Gels is giving him a _look_ , but he just shrugs, staring dopily down at the blank screen.

-

That ought to have been the end of it. Nick figures Harry’s made his point, sent him the most catastrophically sexy birthday gift of all time and then gotten him off in a public toilet over the phone, and that’s good enough to let it go, to go back to their occasional wanking-off-on-Skype arrangements until he’s home for break.

It’s not the end, though.

It keeps going, the whole week of his birthday. Harry’s clearly on some sort of one-man long distance sex blitz, because every time Nick’s phone makes a noise, it seems like it’s something new and filthy from Harry. Nick’s starting to get, like, a weird Pavlovian erection every time he hears it trill or vibrate. It gets so bad that he has to stop opening it at all when anyone’s around, for fear they’re going to get an eyeful of Harry’s prick.

It’s impressively constant, even if it is probably giving Nick a heart condition.

He’s in the back of the car going into the station and suddenly there’s a picture message of Harry’s hand splattered in come, dripping over his cross tattoo and getting caught around his long fingers. Nick shuts it with a yelp, because even though there’s no one to see it, he’s in _public_. He deletes it eventually -- too risky to keep that on his phone, identifying marks and all, he figures -- and sends Harry what he hopes is all the sternest looking emojis.

Or he’s trying to watch Bake Off in peace and suddenly there’s a Snapchat from Harry, ten blurry seconds of him in his tour bus bunk, legs spread and fingers tucked up inside himself. His face is hidden, and the angle is weird, and then it suddenly disappears. Nick frowns at it, tries to figure out how to get it to replay, which he does, and then groans furiously when he realizes he can only do it once and then it’s gone forever.

Or he goes for a cup of tea in the kitchen during a longer playlist at work, and when he checks his phone there’s a missed call from Harry and a bloody _voicemail_ that when Nick opens it, turns out to be a minute and a half of nothing but whines and groans. Harry doesn’t say anything in it, but Nick knows exactly what he’s listening to, and has to press the heel of his hand frantically against his own dick to keep it from jumping to attention before he’s got to be on the bleeding webcam in forty seconds.

Harry still texts him like normal, every day or so, little mundane things about Louis ruining the tour bus toilet by trying to flush one of Liam’s snapbacks down it, or a picture of a weird sign he saw at a service station, and doesn’t make any mention of his sexually explicit warfare, so Nick doesn’t either, really. Sometimes it makes him think he’s hallucinated the whole thing, brain going mushy in his old age. But then an hour later, there’s suddenly a new text from Harry that just says _fuck wish i could get my cock in you right now_ , and Nick’s stomach goes all fluttery all over again.

He wanks so much that week that it’s a wonder he gets anything else done. But he goes to his parties, and turns up for work when he needs to, and mostly packs for Ibiza, although he gets distracted when he finds a pair of lacy black knickers tucked in the back of the wardrobe that Harry’d worn for him just before he left for tour. Those aren’t part of Harry’s sex plot, probably, but the timing still feels personal.

By the time the show’s finished and he’s on the plane to Ibiza, he feels exhausted and vaguely dehydrated. In the best way, of course, but it’s still been the most orgasms he’s had with his own hand since he was probably sixteen, which he definitely isn’t anymore.

When the taxi pulls up to the hotel, he’s mostly excited to collapse in his bed and rest. Sadie and Collette and a few others have flown in tonight as well, and tomorrow’s his big (last) party, although he assumes he’ll be dragged out tonight for an outrageous amount of drinks anyway. He thinks he’ll be able to handle it, so long as he can have a shower and a quick nap beforehand.

Except when he gets into his room, his bed is already occupied.

It’s Harry. Of course it’s Harry. He’s sprawled out on top of the duvet, his hair rustling just the slightest bit from the breeze coming in the open window as the television flickers silently. He’s got his head pillowed in his arms, the side of his face smushed and his mouth slack, fast asleep and from the looks of it, drooling a little.

He’s also arse-up and naked. Of course.

Nick’s cock twitches at the sight of the swell of Harry’s bum just on principle, but more than anything, his heart suddenly feels like it’s swelled up too big for his chest, like he’s the bloody Grinch or something. It’s been months since he’s seen Harry’s face in person, and he’s suddenly feeling every one of those days acutely, the stretch of them thrown into relief by the fact that Harry’s _here_.

Nick grins like an idiot, toeing off his shoes and shutting the door behind him, and then crawls onto the bed besides Harry.

“Hi, love,” he murmurs, softly running his hand over Harry’s arm. “What’re you doing here?”

Harry blinks, lifting his head up slightly with an expression like he’s got no idea where he is, or how he got there. That makes two of them, at least. He smiles instinctively at Nick, though, slow and sleepy, his eyes a bit puffy. He feels warms under Nick’s hand.

Nick can practically see the moment Harry figures out where he is, because his face goes all frowny. “Shit,” he says, sounding disappointed. “Hi.”

Nick laughs. “Expecting someone else?” he asks, burrowing in beside Harry. His chest still feels tight with happiness.

“No, ‘course not,” Harry protests, voice crackly as he pulls Nick into his armpit. “But I had, like, a whole plan. You were supposed to find me with three fingers up my arse and ready to be shagged, not drooling on the sheets.”

Nick laughs, and shuts his eyes. Of course that was Harry’s plan. That’s the most Harry-sounding plan he’s ever heard.

“Collette was supposed to text me when you were in your taxi,” Harry complains, still a bit sleepy. “Fell asleep, though, I guess.”

“That’s all right,” Nick says, pressing a kiss to Harry’s shoulder. It _is_ , too. Harry’s fucking gorgeous, and he’s naked, and he’s been harassing Nick with explicit messages for a week now, and in theory all Nick should want to do right now is roll him over and do -- whatever he can, get his mouth on him and lick him out, fuck him until he cries for it, _anything_. And he will, probably, eventually, but right now, this is all he wants -- a cuddle with his boy.

“But my surpriiiiise,” Harry whines. He wraps his arms fiercely around Nick’s middle, but yawns again, so Nick thinks the reunion sex will probably have to wait a bit. “It was, like. The last part of your gift. The actual me, y’know?”

Nick’s heart constricts a bit. It’s maybe not _the_ most romantic gesture of all time -- showing up to turn phone sex into actual sex, or whatever -- but at the moment, it somehow feels like it anyway.

“This is perfect,” he says, kissing Harry’s hair. He smiles, squirming happily in Nick’s arm. “Don’t want anything else right now. Just want this.”

Harry yawns. “Good. We’ll cuddle, and then we’ll go out with Collette and get pissed, and then you can fuck me up against the balcony. You’ve got a private view, did you know?”

Nick did not know. He’s glad to now, though.

“Sounds perfect, love,” he says, and means it so much it nearly aches.


End file.
